


Trip the light fantastic

by audiosilver



Category: The Tarot Sequence - K.D. Edwards
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Competence Kink, M/M, Multi, Of literally every kind, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tension, Voice Kink, Weapons Kink, all the tension, except none of it is smut, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiosilver/pseuds/audiosilver
Summary: "Come, and trip it as you go / On the light fantastic toe."-John Milton,L'Allegro
Relationships: Brandon "Brand" Saint John/Christian Saint Nicholas, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	Trip the light fantastic

At some point, Brand has to believe, scion parties were meant for companions too. Once. Now, however, he is one of a fading tradition, so he doesn't really expect more than champagne and the lull of piano music that the pretentious scions seem to enjoy, and that is exactly what he gets; with the added bonus of having to watch Rune as he very subtly slips a hand under Addam's overcoat. Quietly, he scoffs, needling him across the bond, a gesture that Rune promptly ignores. Its the only thing to watch, really, Rune's attempts at flirting and being suave, Addam's affectionate endearment, neither of them touching the champagne.

Brand stays on the outskirts of the party, sipping the same glass he has been for the past hour, noting the few other companions occupying positions with similar good vantage points. His is the best one though, obviously. Or it was, before he got distracted by the bergamote hints of expensive _Novaya Zarya_ perfume that has him blinking after a shockingly white, pristine suit jacket worn over the shoulders of a tall man with windswept platinum locks, cropped short in an undercut.

He thinks nothing of it. The strong Russian perfume was an oddity, but nothing he can't brush under a rug. He answers Rune's questioning hint with dismissal, draining his glass and answering the beck of his very own idiot scion.

He doesn't ask why he was called either, it's probably politics, required introduction to someone he doesn't care about. The second surprise comes then, when Addam embraces the scion that passed him earlier, and Brand connects the dots. His surprise must be palpable because Rune actually glances at him, knuckles brushing over his, and Brand swallows thickly as his eyes trace over the handsome, strong features of the man that now shakes Rune's hand politely.  
And then the third surprise, because the Saint Nicholas family loves to surprise him, where Brand expects to be glossed over as an accessory, instead the man steps in front of him, offering a ring clad hand to Brand that he takes without thinking about, resisting the urge to clear his throat at the small smile he's presented with.  
"Christian Saint Nicholas," the stranger's accent is so much thicker than Addam's, the timbre of his voice deep enough to make Brand shiver, only he doesn't, he manages not to.

"Brandon Saint John," he answers, tone flat and even, and Rune raises an eyebrow at him. He doesn't need to see him to know he is. The shiver he'd been suppressing comes back then, when he feels warm lips press to the back of his hand, and he turns a wide eyed stare to Addam, who matches it. When he looks back, however, Christian is only smiling, a burgundy that blows through his mental notes of escape routes and alcohol. Now, suddenly, he has a reason to be at this party.

To his favour, he does return directly to his post when Christian has let go of his hand and Rune is done sneering at him. And he does so only after getting a second glass, to wash away the scent of the perfume that's made him heady, not acknowledging that his suit jacket is now oddly warm. An inch higher and Christian's fingers would've brushed against the hilt of his concealed knife, and something tells him, that unlike the spoiled scions that can't tell a weapon from a spoon, Christian would know exactly what it was he touched.

Or maybe he's just a daydreamer.

He watches as Addam asks Rune to dance, and pointedly does not look at where Christian is talking to Lady Death, her arms crossed over a light blue suit tailored to show off the sigils she wears with pride as accessories and hair jewelery. Some parts of the marble floor are sticky with stray drops of champagne, but not enough to matter, or for anyone but him to notice, and he would like anything to notice except for the way Christian's white coat stays snugly over his shoulders no matter how he stands or what way he moves.

He could read their lips if he tries. He does not try. He very much does not try. He tries to focus anywhere else, on scions in red and blue and mauve, gaudy glittery feathered suits, on the neatly dressed waiters, on the chandelier, on the pianist who's face is obscured, but no matter where he looks his gaze is drawn back to Christian. It's ridiculous, he's never been unable to defocus from someone. He catalogues his weapons, counts Rune's, figures put the angle at which to break this oddly curved champagne flute to get it sharp enough to stab someone. It calms him down, every second of it that isn't spent pulling his gaze away from Christian.  
And, occasionally when he looks, mostly when he isn't, Christian looks back. Even across the entire hall, Brand feels his gaze, feels the heat of his stare and the strength of that look, and the back of his neck goes hot with every slip of eye contact.

He's nursing his third glass, contemplating cutting himself off, when Christian makes careful strides in his direction again. Possibly to ask what he's doing, maybe he'd earlier assumed Brand was a scion being a loner at their fancy party. He slows as he gets closer, pointedly fixing his vest and the chain to his pocket that is no doubt a sigil, and winking, honest to gods, _winking_ , at him.

"Saint John is Sun house, yes?" His voice is smooth like butter, and all the champagne in the world couldn't drown out that sharp edge of citronella scent that makes Brand blink at him. What did he just ask? Was there a question in there? He thinks he heard the tongue clipped 'yes' of his accent but he isn't sure.

When Brand doesn't answer, strangely coaxed out of trying to subvert a question he didn't hear, Christian steps closer, a warm finger under his chin, crooked, perfectly still. It's barely touching him, and for once, Brand has no urge to break a wrist. "But sun eyes are grey, like metal," he blinks, long golden-white lashes framing his wine-coloured irises, "Yours, they are... _tseloye_ _more_ , how you say, like ocean."

Brand's throat feels hot, and he's never been so aware of space than he is right now, but he has also never lost his edge and he does not plan to now, "And?"  
"I would like to look again," Christian whispers, lowering his hand, and Brand bites his lip. Only then does he notice Christian's hand stayed halfway it's drop down, palm up and open between them.

"Are you asking me to dance?" Brand is reaching his hand up before he's even answered.  
"I am," Christian nods, closing his fingers immediately around Brand's hand with a soft gasp, that he almost wonders about when Christian mumbles, "So cold, for sun."

Brand can't stop the way his lips quirk upwards as he lets Christian lead him to the floor in slow, measured steps, the kind of measured that has Brand distantly impressed in their symmetry. "I'm not a scion," He reveals, and if Christian is shocked he doesn't show it. All he does is smile, a reserved, but knowing look. "It is not surprise," He whispers, resting a hand at Brand's waist, his stance unfaltering even when they are almost chest to chest.

And still, Christian gives a gentle tug to his hand, his warmth like a wildfire leeching through Brand's skin, making it impossibly hard to maintain his usual situational awareness. He counts the exits (there are six) and then he counts the scions (there are seventy four) then he looks for Rune, who is already giving him a look over Addam's shoulder.

"Something is wrong, _ledyanoy?_ " Christian's thumb rubs not more than an inch on his hips, and Brand's mouth stops working; he cycles through the russian in his brain trying to figure out what Christian is saying. Water? No, no...ice. He said ice.  
"I'm not that cold," the smile returns to his face when he meets Christian's eyes, raising his palm to place it flat to Christian's shoulder, over the coat that is still, somehow, draped over him. Maybe it is magic.

Christian chuckles, more impressed than anything else it seems, and tugs Brand close enough to whisper against his cheek, "Maybe not anymore, _primorskiy_." Tide water. It's so impossibly endearing, he has to chuckle.

And then Christian leads him to dance, one step and then another. Brand learned to dance, as part of his training, but not as well as Christian, who's motion is fluid enough to lead him before he's even taken a step, who does it all without breaking eye contact, who's breath is hot against Brand's ear even when he says nothing, nothing still, and Brand so desperately wants for him to talk.

Christian turns his palm, when the song slows, to fit their hands against each other, for Brand to notice and fix on the way Christian's fingers are half a joint longer than his, just enough to make him think, not enough for him to say anything. And Christian surely notices, but to his credit all he does is hum, a sound that fills Brand's chest and makes him flush.

Literally, because they are pressed together now, for moments spaced between steps, between the perfect clack of his expensive shoes on the ground. Brand's are practical. Steel toed, an inch of heel that does nothing to Christian's height on him, and there's a knife in the ankle piece. Christian's, however, are a deep warm toned brown, hook laced and shined, the heel looks sturdy, and Brand really must be feeling something new if he's waxing poetic about shoes.

Rune's chuckles fill his mind, and were his hands not occupied Brand would flip him off, but as is all he does is swallow past it. "You're a good dancer, Saint Nicholas," Brand compliments, the words heavy on his tongue, itching to drop in something that sounds less like a schoolgirl with a crush from an American movie.

" _Nyet_ \- no, not Saint Nicholas," Christian murmurs, more timbre than tone, close to the shell of his ear, "Call me Christian. Would like to hear that, from you."  
Brand almost missteps. There has to be a hint in that, he cannot be reading into this, Christian Saint Nicholas is hitting on him for damn sure or he is not a companion.

"Wouldn't you," he lowers his own voice, his hand sliding down to Christian's shoulderblade, curling into the fabric, waiting for him to react. His eyes go wide at the muted sound he gets from him, somewhere between satisfied and wanting more.

At some point it stops being dancing, really, they are too close and it is too hot and Brand has twice counted the number of jewels in the neck piece Christian is wearing, obscured by his collar and his tie. Still, Christian takes a step, and Brand follows, and then Brand takes a step, and Christian gives so easily, following with the expertise of someone used to having this dance. It's a feeling Brand enjoys too much, for someone who normally hates the stuffy look of ballroom dances, who thrives in the open freedom of a club. If there's anything he can lament its that he can't openly grind his hips against Christian's here, but then again, Christian is giving him a look that says he most definitely would grind back, so maybe he can be content with waiting a little longer.

Perhaps Brand is more obvious than he thought, because Christian takes a marginally bigger step, pulling Brand with him, the hand at his waist drifting slowly up his side and coaxing him to arch his back, to follow the lead he is being given, step after step, teeth at the corner of his lip and unable to shift focus even for a moment. They are not in the center of the room, but they might as well be, because Christian hums in his ear, just moments before his fingers press into the small of Brand's back and he is dipped low enough to see the chandelier. He blinks in surprise, and Christian pulls him upright, but the feeling of that sudden shift in gravity stays in his chest like an anchor, the knowledge that Christian can handle him like that when he is willing, not a single word exchanged. Rune is staring, he feels that, but somehow, nobody else is. Maybe that is also magic, because it seems impossible that Christian does not draw gaze to himself inexplicably.

Christian does not prod him with questions either, the way he is used to being prodded by Arcana and scions alike, and when he finally asks a question Brand is dizzy with relief. "How many exits in this building?"  
"Four," he answers, lying on purpose, waiting to hear what he will answer.  
"Mm...ah," Christian cuts off his pondering with a chuckle, turning his hand in jest, "You were kidding, yes."  
"Yes," Brand does not elaborate, does not tell him how many or where they are, but he gets a feeling Christian surely already knows. He hadn't seen Christian make any sweeping glances throughout the night, and yet he gives off the air of someone who's memorized the entire building layout.  
"Do you own this place?" Brand asks, erring on the side of caution.  
"No, it is the first time I have come here in many years."

He wants to say he likes how honest Christian is, while still being vague enough to leave things to his speculation, but he isn't yet sure if he should waste time on that, whatever little time they have; he isn't even really sure if this will be more than just a dance. The beat of the music slows down a little, and most of the people around them are just standing close, moving closer, or swaying. Which is what Christian does, swaying into his space and out of it, leaving Brand chasing after whatever this magnetic effect is.

Between the eighth and tenth song, Christian turns his wrist, and a delicate silver bracelet slips onto Brand's wrist, that he immediately makes to return. And Christian is having none of that, because he tightens the grip of his fingers, well calloused hands that press into his.  
Brand all but stops breathing, when Christian's whisper ghosts over his jaw, "Want to cover you in jewels, _zolotse._ " _My gold,_ And he was direct before but it still knocks his wind out, even more so when Christian's lips drag over his neck, and his sigh is almost a groan, " _Moye sokrovishche._ " _My treasure,_ he says, and Brand is shocked by how much he likes that.  
He was barely to able to understand the word, less able to stop the gasp that escapes him. Christian's hand trails up his side, just a few inches, but enough to catch on the handle of a concealed blade harness, and Brand remarks before he does, "You'll find more where that came from."

And he does. His fingers splay over Brand's side, curling around him, warmth spreading from his fingertips like starlight, the clink of the small chain on his earring, and when finally Brand is thinking enough to check the clock and the cameras and the exits again, Christian's scent is definitely on him. Subtle enough for him to only notice it when he ducks his face. It will be in his clothes now, in his skin, in his hair, and a part of him hopes it is the same the other way, that Christian will hold his collar before washing it and think of Brand. He doubts this will go anywhere from here, and he continues to doubt it, until Christian leads them to the open balcony.

It's decorated, white marble floor and a neat guard rail, still not bright enough to pull him away from Christian, from his suit, from his hair, from the glint of silver he noticed in Christian's mouth that may or may not be a tongue piercing. Their reflections are clear and stark on the floor, but there are no cameras here. Maybe that is intentional.  
When the music fades and he can hear nothing but the ringing of his heart, Christian's fingertips find his chin, ghost over his cheek, brush back a lock of hair from his face, and he sighs, " _Moya reka_ ," he breathes, my river, like he is the one being swept away, "Kiss me."

Brand wants to answer that Christian already has, that his neck is still warm with proof, but he can't tear his gaze from those pink lips long enough for sarcasm. For anything other than the irresistible pull dragging him to his tiptoes, to his breath mingling with Christian's, to the dizziness of alcohol and dancing and perfume and Christian fucking Saint Nicholas, _godsdammit_. _Kiss me_ , he said. And so he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> mayhaps i will resolve things in a sequel? I don't know really, depends on if people actually like this  
> either way i had fun writing it!  
> i hope you enjoyed reading it as well! comments and kudos give me +10 serotonin


End file.
